


Shutter

by bssabrzs



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bssabrzs/pseuds/bssabrzs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you get paid for invading privacy, where do you draw the line?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shutter

He didn't really feel like dealing with the shoving and constant phone ringing with tips of who was coming out next. While all the other photographers were covering the big event, he decided to go by a not so well-known restaurant that an insider gave him a tip on. Although it wasn't where the money was, it was easier and he'd settle for a quick buck from the typical exiting-the-restaurant shot or the waiting-for-valet shot.

The less important people were filtering out which meant the footballers would be appearing soon. He was thankful because after an hour of waiting and the drizzle starting to become heavier, he just wanted to get the pictures and go. Making sure his lens was on tight, the photographer positioned himself across the street, aimed and zoomed.

With his eye through the camera window and his hand steady, he got a few pictures of the Madrid captain. The older man giving hugs and two-cheek kisses before lacing fingers with his significant other and heading down the sidewalk. _Not exactly retirement money but it'll help a few bills_ the photographer thought to himself. He noticed the casual demeanor they all had; footballers and friends talking outside as if they weren't being watched. Glancing around the photographer realized it was because they weren't. He was the only one and perhaps his subjects didn't even notice him.

The next footballer that walked out had a mega-watt smile that put the streetlamps to shame. Sergio had his arm draped around Mesut's shoulders, forehead pressed to the side of the German's head as they both laughed together. A hand slipped into the open jacket of the Spaniard and Mesut ran his fingertips down Sergio's side, from ribs to waist, curling his body in toward the other man. The photographer almost didn't realize he hadn't taken any pictures, watching the private scene unravel through the lens. He softly pressed the button, the fast shutter clicking as it captured the moment rapid-fire.

He continued to watch.

Mesut protesting playfully as Sergio dragged him out from under the restaurant's awning, into the rain they were protected from. Although the German shook his head no, his cooperative hands that took Sergio's spoke of the opposite. The others, still under the shelter of the awning, were smiling and laughing, talking amongst themselves and letting the two have their fun. A few filtered out as they said goodbye and walked to their cars. With his finger still on the button, but not having had pressed down again, the photographer watched as Sergio gently sway from side to side, slow dancing with the other man. Face to Sergio's neck and dark hair becoming damp, the double digit megapixel camera easily captured the small squeeze Mesut gave Sergio's hand.

A kiss to the German's forehead ended the dance and a cold droplet trickling down the photographer's neck brought him back to reality long enough to take a few more shots. _Vacation, here I come_ he thought to himself, knowing the rare shots would fetch quite a price to the highest bidder. He only stuck around for a few more moments, capturing more run-of-the-mill pictures of other Madrid players.

At home, dry and warm, the photographer sat on his couch, laptop on his thighs. He clicked through the pictures, picking out the ones he'd bring to be, hopefully, printed. Taking a long sip of coffee, the photographer's hand stopped when he reached the shots of Sergio and Mesut. He found himself analyzing each one for longer and longer. The intimacy. The innocence. The happiness. How neither man was guarded like in their usual rush-and-wave mood when exiting popular restaurants or stores. Somehow, now, it felt.... wrong. He sighed heavily, knowing he'd kick himself next time one of his photographer buddies bragged about the bidding war over their footballers-romping-on-the-beach shots and how he could've had a profitable war of his own.

"Fuck" he muttered before hitting the delete button, the series of shots disappearing from the laptop. The moments existing only where they should: with Sergio and Mesut.

**Author's Note:**

> All publicly recognizable persons, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners and are fictional. The author(s) is/are in no way associated with said person(s) being depicted. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.


End file.
